


WinJenn's Dead fics file

by WinJennster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Stuff I ain't finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinJennster/pseuds/WinJennster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>basically, a pile of fics that I started that have died in the water. <br/>Have a look. If there's something here that inspires you and you really, really want it, please say so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Winchester Brothers Racing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincest that becomes Sam/Sarah and Destiel....NASCAR fic, I actually had a whole outline for this. MEH

One

They hadn’t been raised normal. Anyone that knew them knew that. A life on the road following the team, that’s what it had been after their mom died. Their dad stuck with the life because he didn’t know what else to do, and he was damn good at what he was doing.

Sundays were spent in the garage, safely behind pit row, playing with whatever was lying around, or reading comics, one ear open to the controlled chaos around them, keeping an ear out for their dad’s position in the pack.

Everyone just assumed they’d both follow in their dad’s footsteps.

Dean was the one who eventually did though, climbing behind the wheel at eighteen, driving in the Busch circuit. Sam shocked everyone by taking off for college one day. John told him if he left, he’d better not come back.

But when John died behind the wheel in turn two at Dover, Sam did come back. He’d only intended to stay long enough to pick up the shattered pieces of his brother, and then get back to what he was doing at Stanford. Once he got word that his girlfriend, Jess, died in a fire in their apartment, he had no reason to go back.

Falling back into the family business was easier and less painful than falling asleep.

 _Winchester Brothers Racing_. Dad had called the team that, named it in honor of his boys.

Dean was a hell of a driver, taking over the #83 after John’s death, but never quite reached the levels his dad did, and all the commentators loved to point that out. He’d been second best two years in a row, had yet to win a championship, and everyone was expecting him to at least tie John’s four.

Sam messed around in the pits for a while, doing odd jobs, finally ending up on the other end of the headset as Dean’s crew chief. It was a perfect setup, Sam and Dean communicated like they were one person.

They hadn’t been raised normal, that was for sure. They were far closer than even the closest of brothers. Most people just assumed it was a tight bond forged by the loss of both parents, that the shared loneliness had driven them closer together.

Still, there were others that wouldn’t be surprised that Sam had Dean backed up against a wall, his tongue down his brother’s throat, his nimble fingers working Dean’s belt, Dean’s hands curled up in Sam’s hair.

They wouldn’t have been shocked at the way Dean moaned his brother’s name, or the rough way Sam threw him back on the bed. They wouldn’t have been surprised at the way Sam fucked his brother into the mattress, or the way Dean arched his back and dragged his fingernails down Sam’s spine.

They wouldn’t even be surprised at the way they wrapped around each other afterwards, a tangle of long limbs, falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Sam and Dean were pretty sure some of the people on the team, the ones they were really close to at any rate, knew what happened behind the closed doors of the house they shared. If they did know, they didn’t say anything, and the boys were content to leave it that way.

It wasn’t anyone’s business anyway.

…

Sam Winchester huffed an angry sigh as he stared out at the track, his hazel eyes narrowed and carefully tracking the red and yellow #83 El Sol Beer car, as Dean downshifted and shot the car forward into turn two. Checking the stopwatch in his hand, he quietly groaned.  This was ridiculous. He knew his brother could do better, and this was a qualification time. This would determine where he sat in the pack for Sunday’s race.

He knew what the critics were saying. That after that moment at Homestead last year, when Dean was so close to edging Johnson out for the championship, so close to finally ending the season in first place for the first time ever, that he’d choked, and hadn’t been able to pull it off. Now they were saying Dean had lost his edge, that he didn’t have what it took anymore.

Sam was sick of it. He knew Dean could do better, but damned if he wasn’t proving them right.

“Come on Dean!” he muttered, careful not to let the headset pick him up. It wouldn’t do any good to start a big fight now, not while Dean was still in the car. Sam knew several of the other drivers had already clocked faster times than Dean, and Sam estimated that Dean would find himself somewhere around position #10, if not lower.

He’d been dropping off steadily since Daytona, and his close call with Earnhardt Jr., but honestly, Sam really felt like Dean should have shaken it off by now. He wondered again what the problem was. It had been eight years since Dad died, eight aggravating years of coming in second, or third, or fourth, but never getting his hands on the Sprint Cup.

Sam knew Dean was frustrated, but he would’ve thought it would have pushed Dean to work harder, to push his limits more, not slowly drop off like the job had suddenly become too much for him.

Dean crossed the line again, and the officials started the clock. This was it, this time would be his official qualifier for the race. Jeff Gordon had run the track at 49.145 seconds earlier, and so far was holding the fastest time.

Talladega was a hard track, Sam knew that, a lot of drivers had trouble here. But Dean never seemed to; he’d won twice there in the last few years, never really falling into the traps some of the other drivers hit. Last year, he’d pulled in a solid win in the last race of the season at the track. The critics had been on his side for once, sure that WBR was heading for their first championship since the mighty John Winchester had been behind the wheel.

But then Homestead happened.

Dean crossed the finish line, and Sam checked the time.

51.425

“MOTHERFUCKER!” he yelled, and threw his headset down on the ground, not caring that the force of his throw shattered it.

“Well, that sure ain’t gonna help us none,” Bobby Singer reached down and picked up the broken headset, “but what the hell did the headset have to do with it? Ya done murdered it, son.”

“What the fuck is wrong with him? He could have done a hell of lot better, dammit!”

“Yellin’ at him ain’t gonna solve the problem, Sam. Try to get yer temper under control before he gets back here.”

“Fuck that. He wants me, I’ll be in the trailer.” Sam stomped off, angry as all hell. He didn’t feel like sticking around to see where Dean placed, because he knew it wouldn’t be good.

…

Dean pulled the car into the pit and groaned.

51.425

Worst qualifying time he’d had in a long time, and definitely his worst ever at ‘dega. Sam was not going to be happy.

Jo Harvelle reached into the car and helped him unhook the net. He handed her the steering wheel and slid out, greeting her with a rueful smile as he pulled off his helmet.

“Guess lil bro stormed off somewhere?”

“Yeah, he’s a tad pissed.” Jo looked up at him with concern in her eyes. “What the hell’s going on with you, Dean? You’re so much better than this.”

“I don’t know. I’m doing the best I can out there.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. I’ve seen you do better! God, Daytona was months ago, you gotta move past it already.” She took his helmet and handed him a bottle of water, and he popped the top and took a long drag. The rest of the crew surged around them, moving the car back to the garage area to look it over, check everything out, and make sure she was race ready for Sunday.

“Jo, Daytona has nothing to do with anything. Seriously, give it up, you’re as bad as Sam.”

“Bullshit.”

“Jo, come on! How long am I gonna have to keep taking crap about Daytona? It was one little mistake!”

“Yeah, one little mistake that almost killed you! You’re damn lucky Dale was paying attention, dumbass.”

Dean spun on his heel, and strode away from her, anger building in his veins. She called his name, clearly not done with the conversation, but Dean ignored her and kept walking. Jo meant well, and she was practically a little sister to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stand there and take the mountain of cow dung she was trying to heap on him.

He was so damn sick and tired of taking shit about Daytona. Yeah, he made a mistake, he put the car into the wall, and she was right, if Earnhardt Jr. hadn’t been paying attention, and hadn’t quickly maneuvered the #88 car out of the way, Dean would have likely been seriously injured. It had been scary, but he was fine. Everyone was fine.

Except that Dean wasn’t so sure he was fine anymore.

Something had changed. He knew he’d lost his edge. He knew it, his brother knew it, the critics and the talking heads knew it.

It was something Dean didn’t know how to come back from, he didn’t know how to get _himself_ back.

Eight years. Eight long years, and John’s death was still haunting him.

That’s what he hadn’t told Sam. That the accident at Daytona and the one in turn 2 at Dover were near identical. Dean had watched it all play out, and for the first time, he was feeling the fragility of his own mortality, and it scared him.

Pulling at the Velcro at the neck of his suit, he loosened the zip and pulled the sleeves off. Dean was looking forward to one hell of a hot shower when he got to the trailer, provided that he could ignore the inevitable bitch face from hell long enough to get undressed and into the bathroom.

Surprisingly, Sam was nowhere to be found when he got in, and Dean took the opportunity to strip and shower in peace.

He was in the bedroom, a towel around his waist, digging for clothes in his dresser, when he felt Sam’s presence behind him, but before he could turn and acknowledge his brother, Sam had him pressed against the dresser, his chest tight against Dean’s back.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whispered harshly into Dean’s ear. “I know you can do better out there, and I want to be so mad at you, but I walk in, and you’re right here, with the damn towel, and the water beading down your back, and I…” Sam’s voice trailed off, and he licked a trail up the back of Dean’s neck.

Dean moaned softly and leaned back in Sam’s arms, all thoughts of finding clothes forgotten, and Sam spun him around, and slammed his mouth into Dean’s, tongue slipping inside, and Dean arched up into his brother, arms wrapping tight around Sam’s neck.

“Bed,” Sam ordered harshly, and Dean complied, hands never really leaving Sam’s neck, and the towel was gone before they got there. Dean landed on his back, and Sam covered him with his body.

Sam kissed him with fire in his lips, and Dean felt himself arch helplessly up into his brother again, as Sam ducked his head to kiss a trail down Dean’s neck. Dean’s hands wrapped themselves in Sam’s hair, as Sam continued to kiss, lick, and bite his way down Dean’s torso, leaving a wet trail of fresh marks.

Dean gasped as Sam simultaneously sucked him down to the base and pushed a finger inside his ass. He squirmed and thrust his hips upward. Sam worked him hard and fast, rough fingertip brushing over his prostate, bringing Dean right to the edge, all the while adding fingers and stretching him out.

“Fuck, Dean, you make me fucking crazy. Sometimes I want to kick your ass so bad, but then I see you, and…” He swallowed Dean to the base again, pulling back up slowly, swirling his tongue around the head, “…god, Dean, you’re so fucking hot, and I get distracted and forget what I wanted to say in the first place.”

Sam slid up Dean’s body, hands everywhere, and found his mouth again.

“Sam…want you.”

“What do you want? Tell me,” he whispered.

“God, fuck me, dammit.” Sam grinned, a predatory look on his face, and sat up, and Dean realized Sam was still dressed in his racing suit, so Dean reached for the Velcro, quickly yanking it off, then fumbling with the zipper, and yanking it down. Sam helped him, toeing off his sneakers as he went, socks stripped off with the legs of the suit.

Sliding his hands under Sam’s t-shirt, Dean quickly removed it as well, and Sam peeled his own boxers off.

Sam was everywhere, hands on him, thighs pushing his legs apart, and when he sank into Dean, Dean’s back shot off the bed and he whimpered, thrusting his hips up to meet Sam.

Smiling down at him, Sam held the position, refusing to move, as Dean squirmed and pushed against him, frustration growing on his face, which just made Sam laugh.

“Come on bitch, fucking move!” Dean growled.

“Make me.”

Dean tried to, thrusting and squirming, but Sam had him, his hips pinned under his brother’s weight, Dean so desperate for Sam to move he was on the verge of tears.

“Sammy…” Dean whined.

“It’s ok, I got you.” Sam pulled out, almost all the way, then slammed back in, eliciting a groan from Dean. He repeated this motion several times, and Dean was quivering, begging him.

“God, Sam, fuck, gotta come, gotta come, please…”

Dean reached for his own dick, desperate for relief, but Sam grabbed his wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding them tight against Dean’s hips.

“Fuck, Sam! C’mon, dammit,” Dean gasped. Sam laughed.

“Nope, not until I say so.” Sam increased his movements, speeding up, pushing Dean further up the bed with the force of his thrusts. Dean hissed, arched his back, and tried again to free his wrists, but Sam just laughed and tightened his grip.

Dean was seriously starting to feel like he was losing his mind. Sam snapped his hips, leaning over to kiss Dean, pushing his tongue inside Dean’s mouth and there was nothing he could do, no way to fight him off, not with Sam completely holding him down.

“Beg me again,” Sam growled in his ear, “beg me, tell me what you want.”

“Gngh…Sam…fuck, Sam, let me fucking come, god.” Sam chuckled, and released Dean’s wrists.

“Do it, come for me.”

Sam grabbed him, and jerked him twice, and Dean came hard, a yell in his throat, and Sam put his mouth over his and swallowed the sound, groaned, and second later, Dean felt Sam come as well, his dick pulsing in Dean’s ass.

His brother flopped over, and they both lay there, panting, sweaty limbs sticking together, not talking, just listening to each other breathe.

“You have to try harder, Dean,” Sam said quietly, as he rolled over on his elbow, and fixed Dean with his hazel-eyed stare. “I know you’re scared, but you’ve gotta push through it.” Dean sighed.

“I know. And I am trying, I swear.”

“I know you are.” Sam didn’t say anything else, just laid his head on Dean’s shoulder, and wrapped his arm around his waist. “I know you are. We’re all still behind you. We all know you can do this.” Sam’s words slurred a little at the end, and within a few minutes, he was asleep, snoring softly on Dean’s shoulder.

Dean stared at the ceiling, wondering if he was ever going to get it right.

If he’d ever even had it right to begin with.

***

Two

Dean woke up Saturday morning with a raging migraine, and nearly blinded himself when he turned towards the window in the trailer. Sunlight was streaming in, bright as hell, and all he really wanted was to go back to sleep. Quickly rolling the other way, he ran into Sam, who blinked in the bright light and smiled at Dean.

Sam leaned over and kissed Dean’s nose, whispered a soft good morning, then rolled over as well, and Dean could tell by the change in his breathing that Sam had drifted back off to sleep.

Dean should have been sleeping. He’d drank himself into a near stupor the night before, after having put up with the criticism disguised as well-intentioned ribbing he’d received from the rest of the team at dinner.

Honestly, the next person to bring up Daytona was getting a fist through their jaw.

Grateful it was Saturday, and the Busch boys turn in the spotlight, he wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist, playing the big spoon, hoping the warmth and comfort of being twisted around his little brother would be enough to help him doze back off. After almost an hour of tossing and turning, he gave sleep up for a lost cause and headed for the bathroom, hoping a shower would at least help with the migraine.

While he was scrubbing his hair, Sam joined him in the shower, warm, slippery skin and rock hard arousal rubbing up against his back.

“Morning,” Sam whispered into Dean’s ear, as he wrapped his big hands around Dean’s hips. “Didn’t sleep well, did you?”

“No. Bad night.”

“Want me to make it a better morning?”

“Hmm. What did you have in mind?” Sam answered by lightly biting Dean’s jaw and pressing himself harder against him.

“I think you know.” Sam’s hands moved up to Dean’s hair, finished the washing Dean had started, then gently tipping him forward into the spray to rinse the soap away. 

 


	2. Weird Ass Abaddean thing I tried to write

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abaddon/Dean, was gonna be possessed Dean non-conning now human Cas. FAIL

She flexed her fingers, reveling in the strength in her hands.

She stretched, extending muscular arms towards the sky, enjoying the feel of responsive biceps and triceps.

It was a perfect fit.

Abaddon had finally acquired the perfect meatsuit. Not that Josie had been a chore to ride, but she needed something stronger, something bigger, something more….familiar.

It smelled like home in here.

The host squirmed and pushed and fought against her, determined to dislodge her, but they were no match for a Knight of Hell.

Checking one last time to make sure Josie’s body was secure, Abaddon stalked off in her new toy, ready to, literally, raise some hell.

It didn’t take long for her to find the blue eyed man her host’s thoughts were so very consumed with.

_No. No, not Cas! Please._

_Calm down darling. I’m just going to have a little…fun…with him._

She could feel Dean fighting her more than ever now and she swallowed a laugh. He’d been so easy too, just one sharp fingernail drawn through his worthless tattoo, and the panic riding him had opened the door. Once inside, she’d been inundated by his fear for sweet, precious Sammy, and his worry and concern over the blue eyed angel that had yanked him off the rack and back to the land of the living.

_Forty years in hell, Dean? Makes it real cozy in here for me._

_Bitch, I swear if you hurt him, you hurt Sam or Cas, and I will end you, you hear me? I will fucking end you!_

_Big words for someone who can’t even blink their own eyes._

The former angel was sitting quietly on a park bench, staring off into space, and she felt Dean’s despair, and thoughts of how broken his angel looked rolled over her in waves. She could feel his pain and she reveled in it.

_Let’s go say hi, shall we?_

_Please. You have me. Do whatever you want, but Cas? He’s been through enough. Please._

_I’ll keep it in mind sugar._

“Cas?” she growls, in Dean’s deep voice.

He startles, then turns to look at her, blue eyes full of wonder. “Dean? How did you-how did you find me?”

“Happy to see me then?”

“Of course!” Castiel stands, and she can see him clearly.

There isn’t a spark of grace left, and she feels Dean reel.

_You were holding out hope, then? Guess Metatron knew what he was doing. My, my, my Dean, your body is reacting so…interestingly. Carrying more than just friendship feelings for the little wingless wonder, aren’t we?_

_Fuck you._

_Maybe later darling. I was actually thinking I might do something…or someone else right now._

_Don’t you fucking dare! Goddammit, bitch! Don’t you fucking touch him, I will fucking end you!_

_Haha, let’s see you try. Come on, sweetheart. End me. Do it right now. You’re so big and bad, go for it._

_Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio…arghhh!!_

_See, I can hurt you from inside. But you can’t touch. Silly boy, can’t exorcise from the inside out._

Dean was silent, and she knew she’d hurt him. 


	3. Untitled Wincest Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This never got much farther than this.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve done this, how many cases of beer and starry nights, he’s lost track of the tanks of gas and how many times the Impala’s odometer has rolled over, but he’s never lost that feeling of total completeness he gets when he lays across the hood of his baby with his Sammy and watches the stars in the night sky.

There are few things in Dean Winchester’s life that bring him peace anymore.

Sleep doesn’t do it, too many nightmares and flashes back in time, too many souls that visit him in that space between periods of consciousness and remind him of the many ways he’s failed over the years.

Alcohol doesn’t do it anymore, it just highlights the ugly and forces him to stare harder, forces him to deal with the shit he wants to bury. His mental walls fall when he’s wasted and the things he desperately tries to hide from are just too big to push back under the surface.

Sex is useless. One night stands leave him feeling empty and dirty and they don’t do anything to take the pain away. Maybe when he was younger…but not now.

No, the one true thing that can bring him peace these days is Sam.

Sam sitting next to him in the passenger seat, Sam sitting too close to him on a witness’s couch, Sam laughing over something stupid, Sam stuffing his face with that rabbit shit he calls food, Sam’s too large body in his personal space…everything is Sam. Sam is everything.

Ask Dean what’s hurt the most in life and he’ll answer you the same thing every time. Losing Sam. Watching him leave for Stanford. Feeling him die in his arms in Cold Oak. Jumping into the cage. Finding out he was soulless. Losing his brother kills him. It’s debilitating pain, breath stealing pain, agonizing wish I was dead pain.


	4. These Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this one is Destiel and I haven't fully given up on this one yet. It's loosely based on Miami Vice. Dean's a cop, he's on a vicious downward spiral. I may come back to this. So you can't have this one. Nope.

I’ve been a cop for a long time.

Honestly, feels like forever. I’ve seen a lot of evil roll through this town, and I’ve put a lot of it away. I’ve slept with a lot of women, hell, a bunch of dudes too, and I’ve put a lot of shit up my nose or in my arm. I’m a dirty cop, and I’m living on borrowed time.

I don’t care.

If it ended tomorrow, I’d be fine with that. It’d be a relief. It would be over.

Then my new partner shows up, and everything changes.

…

_What are you gonna do when you grow up, Dee?_

_I dunno Sammy. Something important.  Something good._

_I wanna be a doggie doctor._

_That’s a good idea. You’d be good at that. I wanna help people. Catch bad guys._

_You’d be good at that, Dee. You never let the bad guys get me._

_Damn straight, little bro. I’ll never let the bad guys get you._

_…_

Dean Winchester sat in the front seat of his 1967 Chevrolet Impala and watched Gordon Walker cross the street.

He wondered how much he had on him. Dean was aching for a hit, but he was wicked low on cash. He’d been low since the other night, when he blew whatever he had left and hoovered it right up his nose. The itch was killing him. He needed something, now. Walker should be good for at least a dime bag. Maybe a little more if he had enough on him to make it worth Dean’s time to run him in. Walker would give up a good bit of product to avoid a little trip to the station.

Smirking at his reflection in his baby’s rearview mirror, Dean pulled himself from the car, holding the door so it didn’t squeak. He followed Walker around the corner of the building, keeping to the shadows, sneaking up on his quarry with silent feet.

“You can stop with the sneakin’ around asshat. You need a hit, right?”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, wondering when Walker had acquired superhuman hearing.

“You’re not as stealthy as you used to be, Winchester, ‘sides, Alastair says we’re supposed to keep you happy. So here,” he growled, as he tossed a small plastic baggie in Dean’s direction. “That should keep you for a few nights at least. Now back off and let me get the fuck back to work dammit.”

“Aw, c’mon. You can give me a little more. Alastair said to keep me happy right?”

“Fuck you Winchester,” Walker hissed, tossing another bag at Dean just the same. “Now get the fuck outta my face.”

“No prob, nice doin’ business with you.” Dean grinned, pocketed the bags and headed back to the Impala.

It’s not too long after he lets himself into his grimy Overtown apartment that he’s got his kit out, cooking down the heroin and pumping it into his arm. He barely manages to pull the syringe out before he’s slumping back into the couch, a wave of apathetic euphoria washing over him.

Stoned is his happy place. High is his apple pie.

Dean drifts, enjoying the chemical blanket, letting the world slip away.

Of course, lately though, there’s been the guilt. It’s ruined every high, and why should now be any different.

“Christ, you’re fucked up again? Dude, you need a life.”

“Fuck off Sasquatch,” Dean growls, turning to hide his face in the cushions, away from his brother’s watchful eyes.

“Don’t you get tired of this? Being messed up all the time? You swore things would be different after I…”

“Stop, Sammy. Just fucking stop. C’mon man, let me enjoy this one, please?” Dean rolled his body until he was laying flat on his belly, reaching with one arm under the couch to find his half empty bottle of rotgut whiskey. Sitting back up, he took a hearty pull from the bottle, welcoming the heat swooping through his belly.

“I’m worried, Dean, you’re getting worse. You’re more dependent on that shit all the damn time. You have to stop.”

“Fuck, Sammy, c’mon.” Another long, long pull off the bottle, and now he’s really starting to drift, high and wasted, but he can’t fight the tears pricking at his eyes, can’t fight the _wrongness_ of Sam’s presence in his shitty one-room hell hole of an apartment.

“Why do you do this to yourself? You need help.”

“Fuck, you’re not even…not even…you’re not here. I don’t…fuck, how much did I do?”

“I’m as real as you want me to be.”

“You’ll never be that real. ‘Cause I jus’…I jus’ want you back. Wish it had been me. Shoulda always been me.” He’s crying now, and the mirage of his brother just stares back at him. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he gasps, “so fuckin’ sorry.”

Dean slid off the couch and onto his knees. “God, Sammy, you gotta understan’. I woulda done anythin’, fuck, anything, to keep this from happening. Please forgive me Sammy. I’m so sorry, please forgive me!”

Sam looks down at him, rests his hand on Dean’s head. “If it were that easy, I would Dean, I would in a heartbeat.  But it’s not. You have to forgive yourself. And that’s something you’ve never been able to do.”

Unable to keep himself upright any longer, Dean collapses into a heap on his filthy living room floor. He sobs into the warped floor boards, his stomach tossing dangerously. His head is pounding, the high is quickly slipping away from him, and a moment later, he’s sick, stomach lurching and pushing out the half bottle of whiskey he’d poured down his throat.

He passes out somewhere between the couch and his bathroom, giving himself over to the nightmares he can’t wake himself from, begging Sam for forgiveness over and over.

Dean wakes to the sound of his cell phone ringing insistently from somewhere in his apartment. He wakes to his face pressed into a pile of his own puke. He wakes to the stabbing pain of a headache behind his eyes.

When he finally gets to the phone, it’s just to hear Sgt. Turner scream “get your worthless ass in here, Winchester!”

Dropping the phone back on the table, he drags himself into the bathroom, forcing himself to take a shower and shave, then he tosses on his clothes, checks for his gun and badge, and grabs the Impala’s keys. He raises a critical eyebrow at the piles of vomit on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the smell, but lets himself out without dealing with it.

…

Bobby Singer’s been a cop a long, long time. He’s seen more shit go down in this town then he ever thought he’d would.

But the one thing he’d never been expecting was watching a kid he thought of as one of his own spiral out of control.

He watched from behind the partially closed blinds of his office as Dean stumbled into the squad room, two hours late, eyes bloodshot and clothes rumpled. Rufus lit into him right away, and Dean nodded with barely controlled disdain.

Bobby wondered if he was high right then and there. Dean wavered slightly, his face paling as Rufus continued to yell at him, and for a moment, Bobby thought the boy might pass out right in the middle of the squad room. He gathered himself slightly, gave Rufus a half-hearted nod and slumped into his desk chair with the air of a man who’d given his last fuck and didn’t have any more to give. He wiped his hands on tired looking black dress pants, and Bobby could see a stain near his knee.

Dean used to carry himself with pride, wearing stuff only a cop with his male model looks living in a place like Miami could get away with. More than once he’d dubbed himself a modern day Sonny Crockett, tooling around in that car of his with his fancy white linen suit and pastel pink button down.

If anything, his style and suave had contributed to his skills as a Vice cop. More shady asshats were willing to trust him at first glance because cops just didn’t dress like that. Cops weren’t that attractive. Cops didn’t drive perfectly restored and maintained classic cars.

He was happy. He was tough and he worked hard and he put the bad guys away.

Then something changed. Even before Sam…Bobby didn’t like to think about that either.

But Dean was different now. He was colder. He was unhappy. And he was living way too close to the edge.

Which is why the man sitting behind him was there.

“He can’t know who I am. We have an understanding, do we not Commander Singer?”

“Of course. All he’ll be told is you’re from Pontiac, Illinois and that you’re just looking to expand your horizons within law enforcement. Right?”

“Correct. He must not be aware of my status if you want me to build any kind of case here. You are the only one who can know my true identity. Otherwise, you put his life and mine at risk. And most likely, yours as well. The Demons cannot know what’s happening here.”

“Understood. Gotta warn ya, he’s gonna be…resistant.”

“I’m prepared for that.”

“Well,” Bobby smiled tightly at the blue eyed man occupying the chair in front of his desk, “ready to meet the idjit?”

…

The man Singer brought into his office was not happy to be there, to say the least. His eyes were bloodshot, deep shadows blooming purple under dull green eyes.

He didn’t spare a second look at him, preferring to stare at Bobby through hooded lids.

“Dean, this here’s James Novak, your um…your new partner.”

Well that sure got a reaction. A bright red flush swept across freckled cheeks as Dean sat up in the chair he’d slumped into.

“The fuck? I don’t work with a partner Bobby!”

“Well, you do now. And I ain’t hearing no arguments, boy.”


End file.
